


A Satinalia Carol

by wombuttress



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 04:02:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9054574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombuttress/pseuds/wombuttress
Summary: Fenris doesn't even celebrate this wretched holiday. Why can't all these people get out of his house?Beset by dreadful demons from the Fade, Fenris learns the True Meaning of Christmas Satinalia.





	

Once upon a time—of all the good days in the year, on Satinalia Eve—Fenris sat busy in his mansion, busy here meaning “drinking”. It was cold, bleak, biting weather, and he could hear the residents of Hightown outside go about their holiday business in the court beyond his door, more numerous than ever despite the weather, which did nothing whatsoever to improve his mood. He lived in a large, empty, corpse-strewn mansion for a reason, and that reason was not so that he could be reminded of other people all the damn time. He made a disgusted noise and took another long pull of wine.

There was a crash at the door. Another resident of Hightown might have assumed that he was being robbed, but Fenris only sighed irritably, picking up his sword out of habit more than anything else. Sure, it _might_ have been slavers or robbers or whathaveyou, but Fenris knew the most probable culprit.

“A merry Christmas, Fenris!” cried a cheerful voice, belonging to Hawke.

“Hawke,” Fenris replied, in what he thought was a very patient tone indeed. He didn’t bother to complain about Hawke casually breaking into his house. “What in the Void is Christmas?”

“Sorry, Satinalia. A very merry Satinalia to you, Fenris.”

“And what exactly is so merry about it? What reason have I to be merry? I don’t even celebrate this wretched holiday.”

“Why, it’s the Satinalia spirit!” Hawke said, cheerfully missing the point as he plowed right on through Fenris’s filthy dining room like a big over-friendly dog, or perhaps a bear. “Don’t be cross!”

“I’m always cross,” Fenris said, crossly.

“Anyway, Fenris, you’ll come to Satinalia  dinner at the estate tomorrow, won’t you? You’ve been shut up in this mansion far too long.”

“I like my mansion,” Fenris said, sipping the Aggregio, but he grimaced. Normally he accepted all of Hawke’s invitations, no matter how unpleasant. Even the ones to the Bone Pit. Even the ones with the mage. Frankly, it wasn’t as though Fenris had anything better to do, and palling around with Hawke and their assorted band of ruffians lightened the tense monotony of being a fugitive.

But today, he was feeling particularly pissy.

“But you’ll come? Come on, Fenris, Orana has the day off, Bodahn is doing the cooking. Everyone’s invited!”

“No,” Fenris growled.

“Why not?”

“Everyone is invited,” Fenris said, but that wasn’t the reason; he did, after all, routinely show up to play cards and murder strangers with these jerks, and had done so for years. “Besides, I despise Satinalia. Every year it comes, and it irritates me. I wish to be left alone.”

“But Merrill’s agreed to come, she doesn’t celebrate it either. Maybe you two can sit in the corner and complain together?”

“Oh yes, rubbing shoulders with the blood mage.  An excellent idea,” Fenris said, feeling his pissiness increase exponentially by the moment. “ _No,_ Hawke. Good afternoon.”

“But—”

“Good afternoon, Hawke!” Fenris repeated, shoving Hawke out of the room and into the cold.

Save for Hawke pressing their grin against the window and waving for the following half-hour, Fenris was at peace.

For a time.

His next visitor was yet more irritating. It was _the mage._

At least the mage had the decency to knock on the door before barging in. Fenris felt his eye twitch.

Admittedly, after six years of acquaintance, Fenris did not hate the mage. Surely, he found the man irritating, self-righteous and foolish, but whatever hate had ever been between them had dwindled to habitual sniping. If the mage dropped dead tomorrow, Fenris would probably have found himself at a loss.

“Get out of my house,” Fenris snarled.

“Oh, that’s a fine greeting, on Satinalia eve,” Anders snorted, crossing his arms.

“Bah humbug to your Satinalia,” Fenris said. “Get out.”

“Gladly,” Anders said. “It’s gross in here. I can’t believe you _still_ haven’t cleaned up these corpses. But unfortunately, I have some business—”

“Don’t care,” said Fenris, brandishing his sword. “Tonight is for me and my wine.”

“But Hawke—”

“Out!”

“But the urchins, Fenris—”

“ _Out!”_ Fenris declared, shoving him back out the door, slamming it. After a moment’s thought, he opened it a smidge and added, “And I’ll see you next week for Diamondback.”

Anders sniffed. “As though I’d miss a chance for you to take _more_ of my money, you awful miser.”

Fenris slammed the door again, and barred it, exhaling wearily. The sun was setting now. Perhaps he’d have some peace.

He finished his bottle of wine, tossed it at the wall, and made it halfway through a second before deciding he was finished with his brood. In truth, the anniversary of Hadriana’s death always put him in a mood. He had no mind whatsoever for festivity on such days, though he didn’t particularly feel like explaining that to Hawke.

After he had languished for what felt like a suitable amount of time in the dining room, he retired to his bedroom to languish there for a little while before bed. He lit a fire in the grate as he polished off the rest of the wine. It was dinner, sort of. Fruit. Grapes. Fermented grapes.

Somewhere in the distance, the Hightown clock tolled midnight.

As the fire burned low, he heard a clanking behind him.

Fenris swore in Tevene. If this was another one of his Maker-damned friends, he would have an aneurysm. What was it with all these people, breaking into his house, caring about him?

But when he turned from his armchair, what he saw was not one of his impertinent friends, but a spirit.

Or what he could only assume was a spirit. The apparition was glowing and transparent. It was shaped like Hadriana—who, Fenris was reasonably certain, was dead as a doornail to begin with. The spirit looked just as she had when he’d ripped her heart out of her chest, save for the fashionable set of heavy chains and locks it was sporting.

Fenris threw his wine bottle at it. “Away, foul demon! I shan’t fall for your wicked tricks!”

The bottle sailed right through the transparent figure and into the wall behind it, where it shattered.

“Insolent slave,” the spirit sneered. “You never did learn manners.”

Fenris was reasonably sure it was just his wine-soaked mind conjuring ghosts from his miserable past, but he wasn’t taking the risk. He lit up his markings and hefted his massive sword, baring his teeth.

“I’m supposed to give you a warning, you ungrateful wretch,” the demon complained as Fenris bisected it shoulder to waist.

“You’ll regret this!” it wailed, as it faded away into mist. Fenris blinked at the spot it had stood, breathing heavily as the world pitched and yawed before him. He glanced at the blade in his hand, suddenly disturbed. Surely, he had imagined it. He’d been thinking of Hadriana all day.

Yes, that had to be it.

He needed to sleep.

He collapsed on top of the covers, still in his armor, suddenly unwilling to remove it, uncomfortable and spiky as it was. He needed this day to be over. Eventually, the wrath of the grapes overtook him, and he slept.

He woke to the blood mage sitting at the edge of his bed.

“Hello,” she said, wiggling her red-painted fingers at him.

Fenris sat bolt upright, scowling. “What _is_ it with you people and invading my home?”

“Don’t be cross,” said Merrill, “I’m the Spirit of Christmas Past.”

“What’s Christmas?”

“Did I say Christmas?” she said innocently. “Sorry, I meant Satinalia. I’m the Spirit of Satinalia Past.”

Fenris rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Merrill, what do you want?”

“I’m not Merrill,” not-Merrill insisted. “I’m here to show you the past.”

“That sounds like something Merrill would do,” Fenris said suspiciously. “Explain yourself, at once.”

Not-Merrill humphed. “There should have been someone along to explain it all to you! All about the three spirits, and the night of revelations? And your terrible fate?” The blood mage’s face slowly fell as she regarded Fenris’s irritable expression. “Oh, dear. It seems there’s been a mistake. Were you not visited by a ghost from your past?”

“Yes,” said Fenris. “I killed it immediately, as any reasonable person would.”

Merill sighed. “Of course you did. Well, come along.”

She reached for him. Fenris wasn’t quick enough to stop her. She took him by the arm, and suddenly he found himself lifted, being flown out the window and into the night.

Fenris scrabbled for purchase, cursing. “Is there no end to your wicked blood magic?”

“This isn’t blood magic,” Not-Merrill said irritably. “Now shut up and accept your preachy lessons.”

“No,” spat Fenris, but it appeared that he had no choice.

They flew over Kirkwall, further and further up, further and further away, until they were leaving the wretched hive of scum and villainy behind entirely. Fenris ceased his struggling and started to cling. Being kidnapped by some bizarre Fade spirit was not good, although it was the exact sort of thing he expected to have happened to him, the way his life had gone, but a fall from this height would surely have proved fatal.

This was just typical for this dratted holiday.

Eventually the spirit dumped him unceremoniously on the ground, and alighted. Cursing and dusting himself of as he struggled up, Fenris demanded, “Where are we?”

“A Satinalia in your past,” the spirit said. “I hope you learn a lesson out of this.”

Fenris glanced about, and immediately felt his hackles raise. This was Danarius’s old manor, decorated for the holidays with holly and mistletoe and a couple festive skulls belonging to former enemies of the magister. He could see other slaves about, and himself, looking much as he did now, save for his hair was brushed back to expose the three dots of lyrium on his forehead. He stood with his arms folded behind his back in front of a door, expression blank. In the other room, Danarius and a few of his cronies were laughing over something.

“Oh, yes, my past,” said Fenris. “My past, that time when _I was a slave._ What is the meaning of this?”

The spirit frowned, glancing around. “Oh, dear, this isn’t right at all.” She produced a thick text from somewhere on her person and paged through it, brow furrowed. “I’m supposed to make you feel regretful and nostalgic with this bit. I’m _certain_ that’s how this is supposed to go.”

“No,” said Fenris.

“Yes, of course, you’re quite correct,” the spirit muttered. “This won’t do at all. Here, we shall just have to go further back.” Before Fenris could protest, he was being snatched again, and the scene was blurring away, fading as though a dream.

When next they stood on solid ground, there was no ground. They were alone in a blank white expanse.

“Excellent,” Fenris said. “Now look what you’ve done.”

“Oh dear, oh dear,” the spirit muttered, pacing back and further and twiddling its fingers in a way that was incredibly Merrill-like. “This has gone quite wrong.”

“Did you forget the part where I don’t _have_ memories of my childhood?” Fenris sneered. “Some spirit you are. Pathetic.”

The spirit’s eyes watered. “Leave me alone! I’m doing my best at a difficult job! I’d bet _you_ wouldn’t find it so easy.”

Fenris only hmphed. He was getting bored of standing around in this empty void. Any hope he might have had of recovering any of his memories out of this encounter was gone.

“Oh, whatever,” the spirit muttered. “I give up. You can go home and spend the rest of the allotted time waiting for the next one. I’m going home to have an eggnog and cry.”

“Wait, what? What next one?” Fenris demanded, but the spirit was fading away now, and he had the curious sensation of falling, until he was once again lying on his bed.

Fenris sighed irritably, sitting up. This was some kind of repeat of the Feynriel incident, he was sure of it. Fade nonsense of some sort. Well, the next one would not catch him off guard. He’d stay awake, with his blade at the ready, and the next spirit would get the same as Hadriana did.

Despite his vigilance, the next spirit still managed to surprise him. One moment, he was alone in the dark with his sword. Then he but blinked, and the room was cheery and bright, decorations appearing out of nowhere. Fenris leapt out of bed, his blade at the ready, raising it to slay the next foul creature of the Fade to assault him—but when he saw who had invaded his home this time, he paused.

“Varric?” he said incredulously.

“No, Broody, not Varric,” said Varric. “I’m the Spirit of Satinalia Present.”

“Fine. Whatever you say, Varric. Are _you_ going to explain this nonsense to me?”

“Well, no,” said the spirit. “I’m just going to drag you around Kirkwall and show you all the great things you’re missing out on by being such a Scrooge.”

“What great things could there possibly be in _Kirkwall_ of all places?” Fenris muttered. “And what’s a Scrooge?”

“I guess you have a point,” the spirit said, chuckling. “But anyway, the Guild says I’ve gotta do this job, so come on, grab onto my chest hair.”

“Your wha—no! I will not!” But the spirit only grabbed his hand, deftly avoiding the spikes, and put it on his chest hair, which Fenris found himself suddenly unable to let go off as he and the spirit took off into the night.

Fenris flailed as the cold winds blew all around him, but the chest hair held strong. Finally, he and the spirit alighted outside a building, the windows glowing rightly from the merriness within.

“The Hanged Man?” Fenris said. “Varric, we come here all the time.”

“Just shut up and watch,” the spirit said, gesturing to the window. Fenris glared through it.

Inside were all his friends and associated misfits. Hawke sat at the head of a table, wearing a red hat and doing some kind of impression of someone. On their right sat Anders, Merrill and Isabela, and on their left, Aveline, Sebastian and Varric.

“Varric, if you’re in there drinking, how are you also out here bothering me?”

“I’m not Varric,” the spirit insisted. “Now keep quiet and watch! Watch the warmth of friendship exchanged, as you brood miserably in your cold and lonely mansion!”

Fenris watched. After a few rounds of cards, during which Isabela and Varric cheated every time, Anders made a passive-aggressive comment to Merrill, who smiled vaguely at him as Isabela then insulted his feathers in defense of her. Aveline, who didn’t even _like_ Anders, started in on Isabela, to which Isabela responded by grabbing one of Aveline’s boobs. Sebastian, scandalized, stood up and began a lecture on the True Meaning of Satinalia, and why You Should All Be Ashamed, to which Merrill rolled her eyes so intensely that she looked moderately possessed for a minute or so. Hawke was barely aware of this, as they continued their impression—which, it became increasingly clear, was meant to be of Fenris—standing up in their chair, and then immediately falling over, knocking over the entire table and suspending the argument.

“What am I supposed to be seeing here?” said Fenris. “That my friends are assholes? I already knew that, Varric.”

“But don’t you feel left out of the holiday cheer?”

Fenris watched as Corff shouted at them all for making a mess, on Satinalia Eve no less, and threw them all out into the cold, where they felt free to continue the argument. They didn’t seem to notice Fenris and the extra Varric watching as they bickered.

“Eh,” Fenris said.

“Fine, fine,” the spirit said grumpily. “I guess I’ll have to switch tactics. Time for a guilt trip.”

They watched as Anders split off from the group, waving them goodbye as he made his way to his sewer. “Tell me we’re not following _him,”_ Fenris groused, as it became increasingly clear that this was exactly what they were going to be doing.

Fenris and the spirit made their way after the mage into his hole of filth as the spirit recounted an amusing story of the last guy he had to put through the Scrooge treatment, whatever that was. Fenris half-listened as he trudged along.

“How is this supposed to make me feel guilty?” Fenris demanded. “As though I did not know of the dank and unpleasant hole the mage makes his home in. I have to smell him every time he’s around.”

“Just watch, Broody,” said the spirit as Anders unlocked the door to his clinic. All of a sudden, he was swarmed by assorted pitiable urchins and orphans, tugging on his robes with their dirty hands.

“I’m sorry, children,” the mage said. “I don’t have much for you today.”

Their pitiable orphan eyes filled with tears. “But it’th Christmath,” said the littlest one, lisping. He carried a tiny crutch.

“Satinalia,” Anders corrected.

“Satinalia,” the urchins echoed, nodding.

All the wretched children huddled close, crestfallen.

“I know, I know,” said the mage. “But I’m afraid you’ll just have to go back out to the cold. And you know who you should blame?”

“The elf who lives in the big mansion in Hightown?” said another of the urchins.

“That’s right,” said Anders. “Why don’t you go and throw rocks at his windows? I’m sure that’ll make you feel better. Here, take some copies of my manifesto. He’ll hate that.”

Fenris glared at the spirit. Not-Varric raised his arms in surrender. “Alright, fine, fine, guilt trip failed. You got me.”

They watched the pitiable orphans scuttle away with their rocks and manifestos, giggling. “Also,” the spirit said, “I’m pretty sure those are the Blight Orphans looking for scam money anyway. Anders should really be less gullible. I wonder how much they’ve fleeced him for so far.”

“Too much,” Fenris said. “He still owes me money.”

The spirit sighed, examining a scroll of paper he carried and crossed something off the list written there. “Well, Broody, I guess this is it. I think someone was supposed to show you the woman who you failed to marry, and how happy she is without you now, but I think Isabela is busy robbing someone right now and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have married you anyway.”

“Perish the thought,” Fenris said dryly. “Can I return to my mansion now?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the spirited snorted, and kicked him into one of the yawning black pits that littered Darktown, into which he fell for a time and eventually landed again in his bed.

Well, that was that, Fenris figured. Three spirits, as promised. Maybe he could rest now?

Probably not; it wasn’t his luck. But by this time, he had the grandfather of all headaches and he was sobering up, and was just tired enough of this unspeakable horseshit that he fell back against the covers and fell asleep almost immediately.

He was awoken by an annoying glow. The sun did that to him every morning, though, which was why he kept the curtains drawn, and this was not the piercing, cheerful yellow brightness of Satinalia morning, it was an eerie blue glow. A familiar one.

Fenris sat up and found himself face to face with the mage—no, not Anders. Justice.

“Mage,” he growled, “Did I not tell you just today to get out of my house?”

“You did not,” said Justice. “I am the spirit of Satinalia Yet To Come.”

“And here I thought you were a demon of vengeance.”

“No. Come with me.”

Having no particular choice in the matter, Fenris went with it, more cantankerous than ever to be toted around by something shaped like the damned mage.

They walked through the darkened fog-strewn streets of Kirkwall, the path illuminated by the spirit’s cracked glow. This was, Fenris thought, not his worst ever Satinalia, but only because he’d spent approximately half his remembered life as a slave.

Finally, Justice stopped. Fenris was hunched into himself so much that he nearly bumped into him. Justice seemed to be looking out at something, although it was difficult to tell as his eyes were solid glowing blue orbs.

“What?” Fenris snarled.

Justice gestured expansively to the scene before them, his staff of portents in the other hand.

“Just what am I supposed to be looking at? It’s dark.”

Justice sighed wearily. Fenris coughed into his fist. Slowly, the sun rose. It was an awkward five minutes.

Finally he could see it. They were in Hightown, not far from Fenris’s home. He recognized the courtyard in front of the Chantry. But the Chantry was no longer there. Instead, there was a smoking crater where the Chantry once was, and in the dawning light of day, Fenris could see the rubble strewn about everywhere. Somehow, the entire Chantry had exploded.

Fenris looked to the spirit. Justice nodded once, gravely.

“What is this supposed to mean?” Fenris demanded. “Are you saying that if I don’t get into the Satinalia spirit, the Chantry is going to explode?”

“Well,” said Justice, fiddling with some of the feathers on his coat. “I’m not _not_ saying that.”

“So…this _won’t_ happen, is what you’re saying.”

“I didn’t say that,” Justice said innocently.

“Pfaugh!” Fenris spat on the ground. “Enough of these games, demon! I’m going home to sleep this miserable holiday away, and to the Void with all of you!”

“Beware,” Justice called after him as he stalked away. “Bewaaaaaare!”

Fenris made a rude gesture of his shoulder, made it to his front door, and slammed it shut behind him.

He didn’t remember making it to bed, but that was where he woke up, squinting irritably at the bright sunlight that his heavy curtains could not quite block out. His headache had not particularly abated and he did not feel remotely rested.

He hated the bloody Fade.

Tired as he was, he couldn’t imagine getting back to sleep, especially since he was still in his armor. He didn’t feel like peeling it all off now. He got up, head pounding and back aching, and twitched aside the moth-eaten velvet curtain. The courtyard was full of revelers and party-goers, all cheerful and loving one another, exchanging gifts and greetings in the snow-covered streets.

Fenris considered all he had seen the previous night, all he had seen and learned. Perhaps…he was wrong, to be grumpy and alone in his dusty mansion during the holidays. Perhaps Hawke was right. Perhaps he should go out amongst them, join his friends, attend the dinner at the Hawke estate.

Yes, Fenris decided, heartening as he gathered his things together, picking out a wine bottle out of the cellar to bring over. Yes, that was quite right. He shouldn’t spend Satinalia alone, being bitter and angry by himself—no, he should go and be bitter and angry at _everyone else!_

Yes, that was what he would do. He would go to Hawke’s. And he would complain! Yes, he would complain! He would snap and grouch and sit in the corner drinking his wine, and ruin everybody’s good time. He would loudly declaim about how much he hated Satinalia, be as pissy as possible—yes! He would be the pissiest he had ever been! It would be a pissiness yet unheard of in all of Kirkwall!

Suddenly in the best mood he’d been in all week, Fenris whistled cheerfully and went out his door.

**Author's Note:**

> [russian translation!](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5145888)
> 
> [my tumblr](http://wombuttress.tumblr.com/)   
>  [my oc blog](http://pile-of-dragon-filth.tumblr.com/)


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